


It Could Happen To You

by Innsmouth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, I should probably tag this as gore, Incest, Things that go bump in the late afternoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innsmouth/pseuds/Innsmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team Rose<3Roxy's Round 2 submission.</p><p> </p><p>Something terrible is lurking in the darker reaches of the Adirondacks, and Roxy is determined to prove it no matter the cost.<br/>But sometimes, you hunt things a little too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Could Happen To You

**Author's Note:**

> Team Rose<3Roxy's submission to Round 2 of the HSO.  
> The prompt was 'monsters.'
> 
>  
> 
> I may or may not have run with it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you’re not really sure how you ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere at twenty.  
  
Alright, that’s a huge lie.  
  
You don’t really know what MIT’s deal was; you can drink and study at the same time. So what if you’re underage? You’re still following in your mom’s footsteps in the field of being-a-BAMF-at-particle-physics-ology.  
  
But that’s on hold for a while since you’ve been shanghaied into housesitting with your kid (well, teenage) sister, but it’s kind of a parental decree, and you have no room to object since you need a place to stay after getting the boot from college over Christmas.  
Mom had snapped up an offer to go work on the LHC near Geneva for a while right after you dropped that particular bombshell, so you and Rose have the house to yourself until the summer.  
  
“I know this isn’t ideal, honey,” she’d said, “and I know you’d rather have your own place, but I’m not keen on leaving Rose to her own devices until she graduates. But you’ve always gotten along, haven’t you?”  
  
Oh, you definitely have. A little too well, unfortunately.  
  
Does she know? Shit, you  _really_  hope she doesn’t know.  
  
Breaking the news to your mom that both of her kids kind of have a  _thing_  for one another isn’t something that you ever want to do. You’re pretty sure she’d rupture something. Or all of the things.  
  
It’s not really your fault, right? After all, it’s not like you were raised together or anything; your dad had gotten custody of you after the divorce, so you ended up living with him in D.C. while Rose stayed with Mom on your ancestral turf.  Neither of you had ever seen much of each other beyond the obligatory Christmas cards and occasionally dinner with your parents being quietly frosty at one another in the background, so it had come as a surprise when you’d gotten an email a few years ago saying that  _she’d like to talk to you without having to take cover from a veritable artillery barrage of parental vitriol.  
  
_ And she’d turned out to be smart and sarcastic and funny as hell and someone you’d actually liked.  
  
You couldn’t really pick out the exact moment when noticed when she started seeming less like your weird, distant kid sister and more like someone you’d date.  
  
Meeting in person had gotten way more difficult after that.  
  
You’d tried to make sure nobody saw you looking.  
  
But then she’d started looking back.  
  
And then there was Dad’s second wedding three years ago, which ended in guilty, surreptitious snogging and fumbling thigh touches in the bathroom before the maid of honor had waltzed in for a smoke and you’d had to disentangle yourselves. After that, you’d figured that denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt and that the Westermarck effect had crawled off somewhere to die in shame.  
  
Naturally you’d protested having to stay over, since there was no way that you and Rose were going to live in totally platonic harmony for six months, and naturally you had lost.  
  
So you had packed your bags and schlepped up to Bumfuck, New York to keep your sister and your mother’s liquor stash company, which isn’t as great as it sounded at first. A week or so had passed and Rose had mainly kept to herself, for which you were grateful.  
  
But you’d been drinking after dinner one night, she’d sat and waited as you descended further into the Drunkiana Trench, and then you’d gotten it into your stupid head to kiss her properly, better than you had as a gangly teenager with braces.  
One thing had led to another, and the next morning you’d found yourself naked in Rose’s bed with your legs tangled together with hers  and your arms around her waist, and you couldn’t even claim amnesia because you remembered every goddamn second of the night before.  
  
It’s not your fault, right? You keep telling yourself that.  
  
You have to.  
  
But you haven’t stopped, and Rose hasn’t said anything about it.  
  
You try not to think about it, really, but it’s always there in the back of your mind.  
  
Apart from  _that_ , staying here is kind of a mixed blessing.  
  
Sure, it’s nice being with her, just the two of you together, but being in the middle of Tree Hell isn’t exactly conducive to actually  _doing_ stuff. Most of the time Rose is either at school or out with her friends in the evening, so consequently you’re online basically all the time while you wait for her to get back (at least your WoW skills have improved – nerf  _this_  rogue, Blizzard).  After one particularly infuriating heroic Firelands run where your group just could  _not_  seem to get the idea that they needed to deal with Alysrazor’s adds  _immediately_ , you log out to save what’s left of your sanity and start browsing.   
  
Oh, the joys of being marooned in the Adirondacks. You don’t even know if there’s anything in here besides you. Is it like miles and miles of absolutely fuck-all? Maybe AskJeeves has something to say about that. A few key presses later, you have an answer--loads of wildlife, mostly deer and bobcats and moose, and a scattered human population.  
It’s not as bad as you thought; there’s even an online newspaper for the towns nearby, even if the articles are mostly about local-interest crap.  
  
Except for one.  
  
Are you bored enough to click on it? Yep.  
  
 _The remains of a hiker who went missing two months ago were found near Five Falls Reservoir. Authorities suspect a bear attack._  
  
  
Jesus. Five Falls is  _really close_ , and the last thing you want is Yogi chewing on you and Rose’s faces. You scroll down to the comments to see if there’s anything there, and something stands out.  
  
 _It’s not a bear._  
  
Of course a trail of responses mocking the guy follows after, but you click on his username anyway. There’s no contact info, but there  _is_  an outgoing link that leads to a cryptozoology site, with a forum for the Adirondack area.  
  
Hmmmmm.   
  
Hey, why the hell not. Might as well post for shits and giggles.  
  
You shoot magic into the darkness, by which you mean that you dash off a topic in five seconds in the vein of  _so whats the deal w/ this bear thing near five falls??_  , and it takes all of five minutes to get a response; not text, but a list of links to archived articles about similar incidents stretching back to the Seventies.  
  
Like,  _freaky_  similar. Like within the same twenty-mile radius near South Colton.  
  
Then another.  
  
And another.  
  
They just keep on coming.  
 _  
_Holy _shit._  
 _  
_A bear _could_  do the kind of damage you’re seeing, but on this scale? It’d have to be actively seeking out victims, and unless you have like the Ted Bundy of beardom on your hands, they don’t  _do_  that. None of it fits together; there are no grizzlies in New York, and black bears aren’t that freakishly aggressive. Yeah, they ambush deer and stuff, but not people (you think).  
  
No bear lives that long, either.  
  
It has to be something else.  
  
The latest comment piques your interest:  _My dad shot it in ‘88.  
_  
 _> did he say what it looked like?  
  
> Yeah “like a cougar started taking steroids and hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down”  
Pops was pretty descriptive like that  
  
>jfc  
did he hit it or what  
  
>Yeah right in the shoulder  
Weird though  
  
>y  
  
>He said that before he shot it it called him  
He heard someone calling for help but when he got there it was just that thing waiting for him  
  
>so like  
it went all   
help me obi-wan kenobi, ur my only hope  
like actually entearting him to come closer?  
*enteratign  
*entering lol  
  
>Pretty much   
“Help I can’t move come to me” etc.  
Nice typo  
  
>lmao thanks  
soooo do u have its head on ur wall?  
put sunglasses on it or whatevs?  
  
>No  
It got away_  
  
You keep posting and digging, and more people keep coming out of the woodwork, more evidence adds up, and it always says the same thing:  _Please, I’m hurt, come to me._  
  
This is not a bear.

This is something worse.  
  
Are you an idiot for believing in it? Probably. Does it still freak you  _way_  out? Oh, hells to the yes.   
  
It draws you in regardless; you spend the rest of the afternoon and evening pursuing leads across the net, and you barely grunt a greeting to Rose when she gets home.  
When you next glance up from your monitor, the sun is rising.  
  
On the second day, Rose spends half an hour attempting to persuade you to sleep.  
  
By the third, she’s given up.  
So have you; hundreds of questions and a handful of witnesses later, you have no fucking clue what you’re chasing, and you’ve gone all _itchy_  for basically sitting in one place for three days straight. Rose didn’t even say goodbye before she left this morning, and the note she left you is decidedly terse.  
  
You’ll apologize when she gets back.  
  
You need to sleep, but you don’t think you can while you’re still antsy, so you throw on your coat and boots and prepare to brave the early January cold.  
  
Wait.  
  
You’re not going out unarmed while that  _thing_  could be out there.  
  
You hesitate, and then make your way to the gun locker in your mother’s room. After a moment’s pondering, you opt for a Ruger and a fistful of cartridges. Why Mom even  _has_  all of these, you have no idea, but you’re not about to question it.   
  
It’s just a quick walk.  
  
You’ll be fine.  
  
As you head out and back-kick the front door shut, the cold hits you full in the face. Okay,  _now_  you’re awake, if slightly fuzzy-minded. Despite being fucking freezing, it’s pretty nice out here with the sun going down and the snow shrouding the trees, and you let yourself enjoy your walk as you go.  
  
At least until you spot the blood trail.  
  
Which leads behind a boulder to what you  _think_  may have been a person, but whoever it was is all torn meat and glistening bone and oh _god_  you’re going to puke.  
  
And then you hear the voice.  
  
“Tim? Tim, come on, I’m over here. Please, bro, I need help. Come to me.”  
  
The hair on the back of your neck rises.  
 _  
_It’s here.  
  
Tim’s friend calls over in response from close by.  
  
“Hey man, I’m here, just stay calm—“  
He doesn’t reach the end of his sentence, because something lets out a long, purring snarl, like a motorcycle revving up, and whatever he’s going to say dissolves into a shriek.  
  
But that doesn’t go on for long.  
  
Or maybe it didn’t go long enough, because the noises that replace it are so much worse, ripping and squelching and snuffling and disturbingly organic _._  
  
Oh god. Oh, god oh god oh god oh  _god._  
  
Your fingers are going numb and there’s a broken-off stub of a branch poking the small of your back as you press yourself against a tree but you don’t even  _care_ , because you are in  _major_  trouble.   
Something wicked this way  _has come_.  
  
  
  
You don’t step forward so much as slide your foot gently through the snow, and  _oh my god what are you doing, getting closer is the worst idea ever._  
  
But you need to know.   
  
You need to see it.  
  
And as you edge into the clearing, you do.  
  
The forum-goer’s grandfather was right; this thing is fucking  _hideous,_ with a heavy feline head and lashing tail. But that’s where the resemblance ends, because despite the fangs and claws and fur, it’s hunched over on two legs.  
  
The other hiker is also there.  
  
It’s feeding on him.  
  
As you freeze in place, it lifts its head from its meal and stares at you, slitted eyes reflecting the dying sun.  
  
For a long moment, you get the feeling that it’s studying you.  
   
And then it opens its gore-smeared maw impossibly wide and  _screams._  
  
The one round you manage to get off before turning and running like the goddamn wind misses, winging off into the night, but you don’t even fucking care because  _this is very bad and you need to run. You need to run now._  
  
You fucking  _fly_  back to the house, and thank god you didn’t lock the door behind you because holy  _shit_  you  _do not want to fumble with your_   _keys_.  
  
You slam the door behind you, lock it, turn on all the lights within reach, and flee to the nearest windowless space you can think of: the first-floor bathroom.  
  
Lock the door, hit the lights, sit and put your back to the wall.  
  
 _What if it gets in?  
  
Oh  **god.**_ **  
  
 _What about Rose?_**  
  
You whip out your phone and press the button for speed-dial.  
  
  
  
She doesn’t answer.  
  
  
  
Nor does she answer the next dozen times.  
  
  
A thought occurs to you then, as you sit there sick with dread: there was no long-healed scar showing through the pale fur on the beast’s shoulder.  
  
  
  
There is more than one.  
  
  
  
The next three and a half hours are excruciating.  
  
  
You’re so tired, but that  _thing_  is out there, and so is Rose and you’re  _scared_ , goddamn it, you’re scared for the both of you; you’re just a college dropout with her mom’s gun, not some kind of hero.  
  
You can’t do this.  
  
  
Eventually, you hear footsteps in the foyer, and your finger tightens on the trigger as you train the rifle on the door.  
  
“Roxy?”  
  
 _Fuck it’s using her voice, it’s using her fucking voice and it knows you’re here._  
  
The footsteps stop in front of your refuge.  
  
“Roxy, I know you’re in here. Are you alright?”  
  
And this is it, this is how you die, in your own bathroom like a trapped rat—wait.  
  
Wait.  
  
As silently as you can, you lean over to peer under the door.  
  
You’re pretty sure man-eating hellbeasts don’t wear pink Chucks.  
  
Oh,  _god_ that is such a relief. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, let me get the door.” You stumble to your feet, like literally  _stumble_ ; with the adrenaline from your fear gone, your exhaustion is crushing.  
  
Rose’s face when she’s greeted by the barrel of your rifle would be absolutely priceless at any other point in time, but for now you’re just glad to see she’s okay. “And  _why_  exactly are you entrenched in one of the half-baths like a latter-day Waco defender?”  
  
“I—“ How do you answer that? How do you tell her that you heard a man die and saw something out of a shitty SyFy flick snack on his corpse? “Where the fuck  _were_ you? Why didn’t you answer your cell?”  
  
“I was at dinner, and I turned my phone off because I’m not a complete barbarian.” She blinks once, maddeningly patient. “I left you a note.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“What’s  _wrong_  with you? You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten, you’ve barely spoken to me, and now I come home to find you in full survivalist mode. You’re an absolute  _mess_.”  
  
You lower your rifle a little and take a half-step towards her, your tongue flickering momentarily over your too-dry lips. “Yeah,” you say hoarsely, “I know. I’m sorry. I guess I’ve just been on edge lately. ”  
  
“I hadn’t noticed.” She clears her throat. “Maybe you should go to bed early tonight.”  
  
“Are you  _serious_? Rose, it’s like eight-fifteen, and anyway there’s something  _out there_ —“  
  
“Roxy, there’s  _nothing out there_. I don’t know why you’re so obsessed, but this is ridiculous.”  
  
“It’s  _not_  fucking—“ you start, but you let your protest die.  
  
You’re so tired.  
You just want to sleep.  
  
“Roxy, you haven’t slept in three days, or if you have it wasn’t anywhere that I’m aware of. I’m worried about you.” And she  _does_  look worried, her usual inscrutability softened into concern. “Just go to bed. You need to.”  
  
Of  _course_  she’s concerned.  
She loves you.  
You know that.  
  
You’re just so  _tired._  
  
“Yeah.” You nod; Rose is right, of course. She usually is. “Yeah, okay.”  
  
Her expression changes to one of genuine relief. “Thank you. Like I said, I’m just worried.”  
  
“I know, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m kind of a huge mess right now.”  
  
“It’s okay. Just put the gun down and come to bed.”  
  
That doesn’t seem quite right somehow, but it’s  _Rose_ , and she’s stable and reassuring and you  _trust_  her, so you bend down and set the Ruger gently on the tiled floor before straightening back up and taking a wobbly half-step towards her.  
Rose’s voice is soft as she coaxes you out of your improvised refuge. “Great. Now come here and I’ll give you a hand getting up the stairs.”  
  
You nod again; everything feels so  _heavy_ , and you have to brace yourself against the wall with one hand as you’re clobbered by a veritable tsunami of vertigo. Your vision is starting to fuzz over at the edges, but that’s alright. Rose is back, and you’re together, and you can deal with fucking Hello Kitty out there in the morning.  
  
Everything’s fine.  
  
You’re safe now, and so is she.  
  
Another step, and the sole of your boot drags on the tile.  
  
Rose simply waits there, framed against the expansive darkness of the foyer, the single overhead light leaving her half-shadowed.  
  
  
You’re not sure just what happened to all of the other lights you turned on in your panicked rampage earlier.  
  
  
  
It doesn’t matter right now.  
  
  
  
You take another step.  
  
  
  
Rose extends a hand, and up this close you can see something dark crusted under her nails and lining the creases in her palm.  
  
  
Her fingers curl inward for a moment, beckoning.  
  
  
  
  
  
You love your sister.  
  
  
  
  
  
You always will.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Come to me,” she says, and you do.


End file.
